


onward to adhara.

by romulus_adhara



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirates, Angst and Romance, Destiny, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Minor Character Death, Other tags to be added, Pirates AU nobody asked for, Setting-Typical Violence, Slow Burn, Swearing, Yearning, alternative history, alternative universe, obv
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25320700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romulus_adhara/pseuds/romulus_adhara
Summary: The mask falls from the pirate’s face as he bites into Nicolo’s hand and forces him to let go. When he looks up again, something in Nicolo explodes, something sharp and bright and blinding, yet he cannot recognize nor remember it.Wide jaw, dark beard, and those same pitiful eyes are the last thing he sees before he is thrown overboard. The water takes him into its tender yet merciless embrace, and the darkness greets him with an old folk song his mother used to sing to him.see me now, a ray of light in the moondance
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 33
Kudos: 123





	1. into the light.

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer:  
> \- this is a fictional and magical 17th-century world, i borrowed names of cities and certain things from real life, but other than that there are WILD historical and probably geographical inaccuracies; even so, I'll try to keep pirates and everything about them as close to reality as possible; the religion here is mainly polytheistic, it will be elaborated on and explored in the story
> 
> beta'd by amazing [junesuns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/junesuns/pseuds/junesuns)

_It starts with a sonorous low-pitched laugh that bounces and echoes around him as if he’s in a dark, damp cave that surrounds and suffocates him. Nicolo extends his hand, trying to catch the laughter with his trembling fingers, yet it eludes his grasp, only brushing past his skin like feathers of a lush pheasant. He tries to move, yet his feet are glued to the ground, stuck in what feels like a viscid swamp. The air is hot and heavy on his face. Nicolo licks his lips and tries to speak yet finds with a paralyzing clarity that he is nothing but a mute. His heart is beating frantically, thudding like a hammer against his ribcage, and his soul is screeching for something outside of his reach or even understanding. He’s longing for something yet cannot go to it, nor even realize what it is._

_The laugh rings again._

Nicolo wakes up thirsty. His lips are dry and parched as he wets them with a soft groan. The sky is alight with the rising sun behind the barred window, and he casts his gaze toward it, struggling to remember what was so important in the darkness of his dream that he yearned to reach. His mind comes up blank.

In the end, it doesn’t really matter what it was. This was, quite possibly, the last dream he has ever had.

It is terribly stuffy here in the cell, but petty prisoners do not get to complain. They do not get to do much at all. 

They will come for him soon, he reckons grimly. His kind of crime might have needed a trial deeper into the land, yet the navy forces of the Naples province, virtually cut-off from the rest of the kingdom and only connected via a single trade route, have their own set of rules. When someone deserts the battle, they better pray they run far enough before the battle is over and they are caught.

A faint song reaches him through the window, and he gets up to look outside. The prison is in the basement, so the road is on his eye-level, and Nicolo strains his eyes to see a baker on the other end of the square. The man is setting up his cart ready to sell the product to the bystanders and onlookers of the execution that is about to take place.

Nicolo feels his throat tighten as he looks toward the center of the square. There is nothing there yet, but the carpenter will arrive soon with the pole. He turns away and presses his back to the dirty wall of the cell, clutching the shirt on his chest.

It’s unfair, he wants to scream. He didn’t desert. He simply refused to kill an innocent, and yet his commander didn’t listen, choosing to hang him for treason rather than listen to his beliefs on morality and honor.

It is an atrocious thing to even argue about, for the question of innocence should not be such a debate, yet what is the point of thinking about it now? Nicolo is now the same guilty as the child he was supposed to murder simply because she was in the way. He clenches his fists harder, the burning fire on injustice licking his lungs and leaving sore blistering scars. 

With a distant relief, he notes it is good his mother has died a long time ago and didn’t have to witness her dear son’s shame. She was so happy when he became a soldier, her wrinkled face tanned and beautiful under the scorching sun as she was seeing him off to his first duty. It was a small provision trip to Sorrento, and he was only taken on because he was new and needed to see the sea before learning to protect it, and he didn’t even get to unshed his sword, yet it was one of the greatest times in his life. He was seventeen then, just a boy, already so desperate to taste the salty drops of freedom and duty. 

Today, he is twenty-three, and he is about to die by the hand of the men he swore to serve. It is _unfair_.

A rooster screams in the distance. Already he can hear the city waking up, carriages and caravans rumbling through the dusty streets, people talking and laughing and being alive, a luxury he cannot afford anymore. The sun is up from the horizon now, heating up the roads and enhancing the foul smell of the streets, yet it still hasn’t reached over the houses, and the checkered rooftops are yet painted with blue and grey of the clear morning, with touches of red and yellow pattering tall chapels.

The fire under his lungs intensifies, and the memories come rushing in — non-existent memories of things he will never get to experience anymore. Travels, trips, fights, touches. Nicolo turns his face to the sky yet again and thinks about a coveted dream that has haunted his mind for years. Something he never did, something his heart never experienced, something his soul yearned for yet never found.

Keys clink in the distance, echoes of his impending doom carried through the long corridor. He sees shadows move at the end of the dimly illuminated void and knows they are coming for him. His hand moves involuntarily toward the birthmark on his shoulder, a swirling wave he’s carried with himself since before he could remember, and it may be just an illusion cooked up by his desperate mind, but the mark feels cool and soothing to the touch. As if it is comforting him in his last moments.

A rough voice rings out, calling his name. He recognizes it as his commander and thinks bitterly that it would be fitting for the bastard to escort him to his execution himself. Nicolo grits his teeth. That man never deserved the power he has, for he is cruel and ruthless enough to rival the Black Ghost himself. Nicolo remembers all the heated speeches Giacomo had made about hunting down the infamous pirate captain and making him pay for his gruesome crimes, yet every time someone proposed they would set sail in search of the Black Ghost, Giacomo would get hilariously red and try to change the topic. The fact that Nicolo was usually the one proposing it and antagonizing Giacomo is most probably one of the reasons the decision to execute him came so easily to Giacomo. He only needed an excuse to cook up a fake sentence. 

The shadows get closer. Nicolo waits with bated breath, desperately whispering an old song his mother used to sing to him — a vain attempt to calm his racing heart that is now stuttering out its last forlorn cries. 

_see me now, a ray of light in the moondance; see me now, I cannot leave this place; hear me now, a strain of song in the forest; don't ask me to follow where you lead_

Giacomo’s face appears out of the darkness, floating in the air like a round cheesehead. It is a hilarious imagery, made even more entertaining by the hysterical spirals Nicolo’s mind is now going down, and he cannot help the chuckle escaping past his lips. Giacomo scowls.

“Won’t get to laugh for longer,” he mutters angrily, gesturing for the guard to unlock the cell. 

Nicolo looks outside again, and there it is already — a pole where he is to meet his fate. It’s old and black, and he sees the carpenter’s apprentice set up the padlock Nicolo is about to fall through. He swallows dryly and screws his eyes shut as the guard chains his wrists behind his back.

Longingly, Nicolo thinks about the laughter from his recurring dream and wishes he could run away to that cave and listen to the soft voice forever. Even if he couldn’t move nor see nor feel there, it still felt safer and warmer. 

The chains clasp around his wrists and his heart. Nicolo watches the sun above and sends a quiet, albeit pointless, prayer to the gods. 

_make it painless._

The memories of things that never were come back to cloud his vision again, and inbetween them all, he sees the most grievous one, the pain of loss shuttering his heart. 

For all his life and travels, Nicolo didn’t even get to fall in love.

The guard takes him outside.

///

As much as it is a grisly and dreadful ordeal, executions always seem to gather quite a crowd of spectators. Nicolo casts his eyes around the crowd of peasants and masters, who, however different in appearance and status, seem to share one trait here under the hanging podium. It shines in their faces, rouged and dirty alike, playing in the curves of their curled fingers and twisted lines of their filthy mouths — hunger for blood. They want to see him choking and dying, and then go about their day as if nothing has happened, pretend once again they are law-abiding and morally rich citizens who do not foam at the sight of the hanging pole. 

His legs feel heavy on the pavement, each step filled more and more with lead that sneaks through his veins and into his naked feet. They didn’t even give him boots. Probably to see his twitching toes better. Nicolo’s throat clicks as he tries to swallow around his dry tongue. He would kill for a drink of water now.

The rags that his uniform has been reduced to are hanging off of him in dirty chunks. They only left Nicolo with a thin white undershirt and pants, but one would never venture that this was ever a part of the beautiful blue dressing. He misses the comfort it once brought him, and he misses the clinking of his boots on the pavement, and he misses the weight of the sword in his hand as he marched into battle and defended his land. It was never a great war, just simple run-ins with thieving nomads, because for decades now, the biggest and only foe of the kingdom were pirates, and Nicolo spent all his service on the shore and never crossed paths with the vermins of the sea, yet they were _his_ battles. 

Belatedly, Nicolo regrets not setting sail farther than the cost of Italia and never crossing paths with legends of the Seven Seas. He likes to think he would fare well in battle against them. If things were just a little bit different, he would have a great life of conquests and victories, and when his sunset years came, he would settle somewhere inland on a small farm with, perhaps, someone by his side. Someone to love and cherish for the rest of his days. 

But pirates never attack Naples. Nicolo never got reassigned. He went into battle with a mountain tribe near Vesuvius and tried to save an innocent girl from Giacomo’s sword and rage. He still remembers her running form as she escaped into the forest to avoid the certain fate of capture or something worse. 

His time has come. 

The crowd murmurs in unison, a low chutter of excitement and foretaste of his death. It is revolting. He tries to recall if he ever behaved like that at anyone’s execution, yet he rarely attended them, too repulsed and moved by their unfair assignments. 

The guard stops Nicolo before the podium, and in a last attempt to feel harmony with himself and the gods, Nicolo raises his face to the sky, singing a silent plea to the ones looking down on him from the clear blue dome.

The laughter from his dream resonates inside, and he once again recalls his mother’s song as his lips move frantically in his last prayer.

_see me now, a ray of light in the moondance_

A rough hand grabs his shoulder to lead him up. Nicolo says his last farewell to the sky and opens his eyes. If he has to die with an audience, he will make sure they see the death cloud his vision. 

The horn in the port booms through the entire city.

Nicolo’s heart stops. It is the sound of the horn that can only be heard at sea, for its meaning has only one purpose. His eyes meet Giacomo’s, and he sees his own shock mirrored there, mixed with a swirling pool of pure terror.

The crowd goes deathly silent as they wait to see if they were mistaken. Heavy drops of stillness engulf Nicolo’s body and stick to his skin.

The horn sounds again, and right after it — another one, a foreign, dark, malicious sound of oncoming death. 

Giacomo’s white lips move soundlessy, yet Nicolo knows what he’s saying.

“ _Pirates_.”

The realization seems to overcome everyone at once, even those who are not familiar with the music of the war and do not know that the shore guard rang the battlehorn meant to call soldiers to arms against ransacking pirates. It shudders through the crowd, and for a blissful confused second, they stare at each other — before breaking out into a panicked frenzy that sends them running and clamoring, pushing each other and stomping on fallen items, razing down the baker cards and poles, all of them fleeing to hide themselves and their possessions.

Giacomo finally comes to life, his face twisting with agony that overcomes any coward when he is faced with a threat he cannot run from. He stomps toward Nicolo, unsheathing his sword, his eyes burning with hatred.

“I shall finish you faster, then,” he growls, raising his arm to strike Nicolo down.

Fear shoots through Nicolo’s veins and pushes open his mouth.

“ _Stop_!” He screams, his voice unusually loud and so vibrant it somehow manages to stop Giacomo in his tracks.

Scattering to gather his thoughts, Nicolo licks his lips and leans forward.

“I can help you fight,” he says frantically. “Pirates never attack Naples, which means that if they did, there may be a lot of them, and they are the worst kind. You need all the swords you can get, don’t you?”

Giacomo always hated him, but no matter how arrogant and vile he is, he’s not as stupid as he seems. He’s a good strategist, even if he only ever got to plan small and usually dastardly missions, and he cannot, in sound mind, deny that Nicolo is right. His lips twist in anger as he thinks it over, but neither of them have the time. Giacomo lowers his sword and approaches him to take off the chains.

“If you try to desert again,” he growls into Nicolo’s ear, his hot breath gushing over his neck, “I will find and quarter you.”

Nicolo doesn’t let himself scoff. It is so much like Giacomo to think about his own personal hatred when his city is in danger. Nicolo does not care what happens to him after the battle, or if he even survives it, for his duty is to protect the innocent from the evil.

“I shall see you on the other side,” Nicolo whispers both to Giacomo and himself.

Giacomo only glares at him as the chains fall to the ground and commands him to retrieve his armor from the barracks. Without any afterthought, he takes off toward the port, to undoubtedly send his people into battle and hide behind their backs for as long as he can.

Nicolo rubs his wrists and takes off running. Explosion sounds somewhere near the port, and he looks over the roofs to see black smoke coming from the sea. His heart beats ever faster.

As he swerves between buildings and people, he allows his mind a quick thankful prayer to the gods. He does not know what shall happen to him now, yet they have saved him from certain death, and in thanks for that, he will greet his fate bravely now.

///

When Nicolo flies out of the labyrinth of Naples’ streets, his uniform resting against his body once again, his sword clutched firmly in one fist and his father’s dagger in another, he has to stop for a brief moment to wonder at the horror the port has been reduced to.

Once beautiful and exploding with color and life, it is now a burning half-destructed mess of flaming buildings and broken bridges, screeching people running in a frenzy toward the city yet getting lost in the debris and scattered goods and merchandise discarded from the cards. In the middle of the huge port, the soldiers are clashed with figures draped in black or red, their curved swords swishing in the air and shedding the blood of his brothers. 

As Nicolo casts his gaze upon the sea, the shock at seeing the scene only intensifies. 

There is only one ship.

She stands tall and dark over the water, the three masts towering over the deck, shrouds and sails flapping grotesquely under the black flag. Something about the way it twirls in the air rings strange to Nicolo, yet he does not have time to admire the dark beauty of the ship — for he hears a cry of rage and looks down to see a pirate charging at him. His hands move on instinct, and he raises his sword just in time for it to clash with the attacker’s.

Nicolo twists his wrist and steps to the right to maneuver the weapon against his enemy, but the pirate pushes him away and scurries to disappear into the city. Nicolo stands there, dumbfounded, as he looks around the port and realizes something — the pirates are not as much fighting the soldiers as moving them out of the way. They aren’t collecting the goods thrown around but bypassing them to travel further into the streets.

Why would a lone pirate ship attack one of the most protected ports in the kingdom and not even take the easy loot? What are they searching for in Naples?

The ship. Nicolo looks at it again, and then it hits him — the sails are moving in the air. There is not a gush of wind, yet they flap around so wildly one would think there is a storm. 

A cry sounds from behind him, and he turns around to see the same pirate run toward and fly past him with no thoughts given to trying to fight him. Following their fellow, the other pirates start filing out of the city and back to the port and from there — to the boats carrying them to the ship. They’re already filling up and disembarking so fast it is wondrous to the eye.

Fighting his confusion, Nicolo runs toward the shoreline, his sword raised as he advances on the bridge and jumps into one of the boats along with another soldier, and a small battle of their own starts in the boat. There is not a lot of place to maneuver, so Nicolo hooks his foot over a pirate’s knee and expertly throws him overboard, before turning around just in time to see another masked pirate with a dagger raised at him. He throws his hand forward, but his sword is fought off with an embarrassing ease, and he grits his teeth when he hears the pirate bellow with laughter. 

A familiar chill comes over Nicolo, and he takes a deceitful step back. The pirate advances on him, fooled by his pretend cowardice, and Nicolo uses it to step around the man’s dagger and plunge his sword into his heart.

“Forgive me,” he whispers under his breath as the pirate’s eyes go terribly wide and he falls overboard, Nicolo’s sword leaving his body with a sickly squelch. 

He turns to realize he is the only one left on the boat. There were four pirates to begin with, but none of them are here now, and neither is Nicolo’s brother in arms. Yet he doesn’t get to marvel at that.

Even without anyone manning the oars, the boat is moving toward the ship on its own. Nicolo sees the ship grow bigger and bigger until it is a looming overbearing shadow of a screeching siren figurehead on the bow. From here, he sees fighting on the deck, and nobody seems to be paying him any attention, so as soon as the boat’s nose hits the ship, Nicolo grabs the rope and starts climbing, his bloody sword in his teeth.

What greets him on the craned deck when he finally reaches it and hoists himself up to look through the serpentine railings is nothing short of a massacre. Slumped bodies are everywhere the eye can see, yet the screaming fighters pay them no heed, expertly stepping around bloody limbs in their deathly dance. His breath hitches when he realizes there are only a few specks of dirty blue amongst the sea of black and red uniforms. The soldiers are losing, and the high sails are blown wide — the pirates are getting ready to leave. Why so fast?

No time for that. Nicolo lifts himself up and props a slippery boot on the upholstery of the ship to grab the railing and jump on the deck. 

He is noticed immediately. He emerged near the quarter deck, and it did not take long for the pirates in red on it to see him. Nicolo raises his sword as one of them yells something to his comrades and slings over the upper railing to land before him. Nicolo charges first, not giving the pirate the time to regroup, and his sword flies swiftly into the pirate’s side, yet at the same time, an enemy dagger finds its cruel way into Nicolo’s ribs. They gasp for breath, but Nicolo recovers first, stepping away and plunging his sword back into the red jacket, this time right into his heart.

Silently, Nicolo prays for his soul as the pirate falls to his knees, his palms clenched around Nicolo’s sword. The others had fled the quarter deck to join the fight on the deck, but one yet remains. This one is clad in black, and as Nicolo gets up on the deck, he realizes that the man is unmoving. 

He is not fazed by the screech of the battle or the rocking on the ship. His broad back is half-turned, but even as Nicolo lands with a not-so-silent thump, he doesn’t turn around or look up from where his fingers are wrapped around the railing. His eyes are closed, wildly rolling around in the sockets. Nicolo cannot see his face, as it is covered by a thick mask with intricate silver patterns sewn into it, but he sees the shimmer of exertion sweat on his tanned forehead.

Is he wounded? Nicolo doesn’t notice any injuries on him, and as he advances, taking his dagger out from his belt, a churning worm of doubt chews at his insides. This is a pirate standing before him, yet it is still not an honorable thing to attack an unarmed wounded man. There is something about the pirate that stops Nicolo’s hand from moving, and here, in the middle of a grisly fight for life or death, he stands still, like a newbie fool.

A scream from behind, filled with bloodlust, awakens him from his peculiar daze, and he raises his hand as he moves forward, ready to rid the world of another piece of dishonorable scum. His side sings with pain but he ignores it, swinging his dagger at the man’s heart.

A clash of steel in the air. Instant.

Distantly, he registers a sharp jolt of agony in his stomach. Dark, burning eyes stare into his own, impossibly wide and agonizingly pained. Their hands are in the air, their daggers joined in a lethal clasp, yet the pirate, much like Nicolo, had another weapon, and its hilt is now resting flush against Nicolo’s stomach.

The man pushes him forward until his back hits the railing. With his free hand, Nicolo catches the man’s wrist, a desperate attempt to either stay on board or take the man into his abyss. The dark eyes widen in what Nicolo can only perceive as dark humor.

The mask falls from the pirate’s face as he bites into Nicolo’s hand and forces him to let go. When he looks up again, something in Nicolo explodes, something sharp and bright and blinding, yet he cannot recognize nor remember it.

Wide jaw, dark beard, and those same pitiful eyes are the last thing he sees before he is thrown overboard. The water takes him into its tender yet merciless embrace, and the darkness greets him with an old folk song his mother used to sing to him.

///

_It starts with a sonorous low-pitched laugh that bounces and echoes around him as if he’s in a dark cave, yet this time, it is not dark nor suffocating. The air is clear and fresh, and as he raises his face to the sky, he sees a glimpse of bright blue. The cave, as it turns out, is overgrown with green, and as he wonders at the riches of its flora, a gentle, almost caressing gust of wind washes over his face._

_The laugh rings again._

Nicolo gasps for air as he is forced into consciousness, coughing up what feels like tons of sand in his throat. Yet when he presses his hand to his mouth, there is nothing but water. Salt water.

Memories come back slowly and reluctantly, like a child at the break of dawn refusing to wake up. His head rings, but it is not the usual pain but more of a dull throbbing of exhaustion. Nicolo’s hands dart toward his stomach as he recalls what made him fall. His uniform is gone. The undershirt he still has is torn and ragged on the place of the wound, but there is no injury, neither there or on his ribs. His skin is smooth. How?

He groans and drops his hands on the floor. They land in water and splash it around. Nicolo sits up, propping his hand on a nearby barrel, only to freeze as it dawns on him where exactly he is. 

The barrel is dark and charred, and the strong smell coming from it is telling of gunpowder. As Nicolo looks around, he sees dozens of similar ones piled around a small room, all along the walls and until a clearing in one of them. A clearing that is right on Nicolo’s left, and the light coming from it is so bright he reckons that is what woke him up. Not without a struggle to his sore limbs, Nicolo crawls toward the light and realizes it is not just a clearing — it is a tear.

In the hull of a ship. 

The sea outside is wide and clear and almighty, but Nicolo does not feel like admiring it, for him seeing sea and _only_ sea can only mean one thing.

He must’ve been washed into here when he fell into the water, yet it sounds dubious even in his head. How could this have happened?

Rapid stomping and rushed yelling over his head makes him recoil and crawl back quickly until he is pressed against the wall behind two barrels. A small door he didn’t notice slams open on the other side, and someone walks in, cursing loudly. Nicolo sees the outlines of their body against the torches, a tall bulky man in stained grey clothes.

“Bloody hell, the hull is broken here too!” He yells huskily to someone outside. 

As the man comes inside and toward the breached hull to inspect the damage, Nicolo’s mind enters a state of paralyzing quietude. 

“Tell Copley to get here right the fuck now, the whole thing’s flooded. If he doesn’t hurry his ass up, it’s gonna damp the powder! Fucking soldiers, cowardly pieces of shit.”

Blood freezes in Nicolo’s veins. 

This morning, he escaped death by a lucky chance that he considered a blessing at the moment. The fates played nothing but a cruel joke on him, for they had only delayed his demise, he realizes as his body quivers in the powder room of a _pirate ship_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOHOHO folks i promised to be back and I am here with, you guessed it, an au! every fandom has to have a pirate au, don't you think?
> 
> this is my first pirate au, and to be open with you, I am having doubts about it bc I have another big fic that requires my attention and a lot of different small ideas, and sigh, I never learn from my mistakes, but DAMN am I vibing with this idea. also, I suck at first chapters, and I really hope this got your interest, as we are in for a wild ride! also-also, this is very different from anything I've written before, but also not so much? eh, judge its quality for yourself.
> 
> this is only an intro chapter, and we only got to meet one of our main characters (and catch glimpses of others woohoo), but very soon, we're getting to know all of them, and it's so exciting y'all please I'm vibrating, I couldn’t wait to begin this it is almost 3am and I need to work in five hours this is fun !  
> also-also-also, I got this idea while rewatching moana and it just,,,it, and my love for disney, will show. I just want my boys to be pirates and desperately in love, plus some magic thing, is that too much to ask??
> 
> anyway, if you're here because you followed me from my previous fics, don't worry, I'm still very much interested in writing for kpop and I'm not abandoning ets. I was just taking a short break from it and....got into a new fandom and ship,, in my defense i was left unsupervised 
> 
> phew, I think this was all I had to say for now? if this flops my cat posted it!
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/anxgayiety) // [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/romulusadhara) // [carrd](https://onefortheroad.carrd.co/)


	2. collision.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the day of the planned siege, Yusuf wakes up from a nightmare.

On the day of the planned siege, Yusuf wakes up from a nightmare.

He comes to slowly, controlling his ragged breathing and carefully untangling his clawed fingers from the woolen covers. Opens his eyes unhurriedly, meticulously casting away the dark figures and looming shadows that have been chasing him all throughout the dream. 

He cannot quite recall what it was, yet he remembers running. It was dark, and the air around him felt stuffy and suffocating, as if he was in some sort of a cave with no signs of an exit. Just all-consuming darkness. Someone screamed, somewhere far away, pleaded for help desperately, yet nobody would come to their rescue. Yusuf tried to find the voice, but it eluded him every time, and whenever he thought he was getting closer, there was only another monster waiting for him around the corner.

Yusuf swallows as he watches the sky leisurely brighten behind his small circle window. _Old Guard_ is moving steadily through the sea, getting closer to their destination. Anxiety settles behind his ribs as he goes over the plan once again in his mind.

It is time to get up and meet with Andromache. The captain hates this plan even more than he does, but she insisted on them going through with it — and he saw it in her eyes, that desperate light that refused to go out. The curse of hope, poisoning her heart and lungs and soul. She said it would be the last attempt, and Yusuf would believe her if he didn’t hear that same excuse hundreds of times before.

Each time they fail to find Noriko, Andromache rages and swears this was the last time they tried; and each time, a new seed of hope sneaks through the defenses of her soul — and they’re off again to look for their lost captain and her lost love.

He thinks about Noriko as he washes up and gets dressed. He loved her in his own way, yet no person on this ship can even come close to what she meant to Andy. Yusuf wonders often what it feels like to love someone so colossally and absorbingly. Together, they were akin to fire spirits of the depths of hell, unstoppable and fierce in their love for each other and their hatred for anyone who ever tried to take away their freedom. 

Yusuf never loved someone like that, except maybe his ship, but that love is something of a spiritual connection between siblings rather than partners. He loves Andromache and their crew, but it is only natural to love the only family that ever treated you right. He loves his gods, but he is simply a puny chess piece in their own cruel game. 

He ties his hair up and puts on his quartermaster hood before grabbing his mask and making his way outside and up on the deck. Mark is in the crow’s nest, legs swinging merrily as he waves at Yusuf from his high point. Yusuf swipes at him, raising his face to the sky and letting his eyes get used to the grey brilliance of pre-dawn. He breathes in, the overfamiliar salt taste of the sea settling on his tongue. This is home.

The ship is on the verge of waking up. Steadily, the night crew is preparing to transfer the sails to the day crewmen and catch a few hours of sleep before the siege. Yusuf walks through the deck, fingers caressing the railings, recognizing every scrape and dent left there over the years. She’s creaking barely audibly, not the signs of strain but groans of content. This old girl yet has a lot of strength in her, and it shall be decades before she sails away to her eternal rest.

Yusuf greets Booker on the way to Andromache’s quarters, grinning at his sleepy and filthy French tongue spewing commands that the powder monkeys understand out of the sheer fear to _mis_ understand them. Booker notices him and waves in greeting, passing him a sheet of paper with the report on the ship’s state. Yusuf gives it a once-over and nods in satisfaction. Their girl is ready for battle.

He doesn’t see either any of Merrick’s people or the man himself anywhere on the deck, which is the first sour drop into the bucket of his mood. He grits his teeth but keeps walking.

Andromache is already awake when he knocks on her door. She’s bent over the journals and only looks away from them when Yusuf slips Booker’s report under her nose. She studies it with a frown before nodding.

“Is Merrick awake?” She asks, discarding the report and leaning back in her chair, a hand placed protectively over her favorite axe.

“Haven’t seen him on deck yet,” Yusuf answers, keeping the distaste from showing on his face. “I wouldn’t put it past him to show up after everything is said and done and claim he’s been there the entire time.”

Andy huffs and stands up to walk over to the window, her arms crossed. They can’t see Naples from here quite yet, but that is the way it’s supposed to be. Yusuf flexes his fingers behind his back, preparing them for the purpose he will have to fulfill.

“This will have to be the quickest job we’ve ever done,” Andy says under her breath, repeating the plan for what must be the hundredth time. “Are you rested well?”

“Well enough,” Yusuf says, clearing his throat. “I will have to rely on the protection of Merrick’s crew, since we need all of our crewmen in battle.”

Andy shakes her head and turns to meet his eyes. Her face looks young — not as fresh as it would look if she lived on land, where her power originates — but worn with worry and years-old grief. What Yusuf always admired about her, though, is her ability not to lose herself in the purpose and always remember that her crew comes first.

Andromache made a mistake of putting her own desires before the ship’s once already, and she shall never repeat it. That is why she is their loved and respected captain.

“Do not use it more than absolutely necessary,” she advises. “We need to sneak up unexpectedly and then haul ass very quickly. You need to be in top shape.”

Yusuf hides his smile in his beard and walks over to the window, his boots thumping dully on the polished wooden floors. He passes Noriko’s old armor but doesn’t look at it. Bad luck. 

There is a compass engraved into the windowsill right in the center of the ship, and he taps it with his finger, watching the arrow stay unwaveringly on their course. 

“You do not have to worry about me, captain,” he murmurs, patting Andy’s shoulder. “I’ve done this before, have I not?”

Andromache swipes his hand away and huffs. “Not on this scale, Yusuf. This is _Naples_. The most guarded trade port in the kingdom. They won’t be expecting us, but it will not take them long to retaliate.”

“It’s good, then, that the severity of our goal outweighs the risks,” Yusuf whispers, fully aware that he sounds accusatory but pushing through nevertheless.

There is a reason Andromache is their captain, and there is a reason Yusuf is their quartermaster. Neither of them would trust anyone else to do the job, just like not a single person on their crew would think of anyone else to vote for.

Andy’s face constricts with vulnerability she only allows herself in front of a selected few, and she shakes her head. Her hair falls out from under her headcloth, and she tucks it back impatiently.

“If the silver compass isn’t there, I will quarter Merrick with my own two hands,” she whispers feverishly, her lips pushing back as if she’s snarling.

“As much as I would be happy to help you in that endeavor,” Yusuf sighs, “he did not promise us solid results.”

“No,” Andromache contradicts sharply. “He said either the compass _or_ the map is in Naples. If we find none, he will respond to me personally.”

Yusuf sighs heavily and hangs his head. There is no point in arguing with her when she is agitated and in the disharmonious pre-raid mood. Both of them know they cannot afford to kill Merrick, not if they want to upset several powerful captains whose patronage that weasel has, but there is a time and place for bitter reminders, and right now is not it.

Andromache brushes her hand over the wooden panel, whispering the usual prayers under her breath. They shall need the favoritism of the gods today. 

“Make sure the crew is ready,” she commands quietly. “And then rest. You need all your strength today.”

“Yes, my captain,” Yusuf murmurs before saluting with two fingers and departing onto the main deck.

There are more people here now, and the deck itself is on fire with the slowly rising sun. Yusuf stops for a moment to admire the beauty of his old girl, her deck and railings and sails shining and glistening in the wake of the new day. Even if some of them fall today, she shall always go on. 

Mark whistles from the crow’s nest, signaling that he sees Naples on the horizon, and Booker commands for the oarsmen to stop their work and for the sails to go up. From now, they wait until the sun is higher in the sky to help them advance unnoticed. Booker notices Johnathan on the quarter deck and gives him the signal to holler for the crew to arm up. 

Fangs suddenly jumps down from the mast and right under Yusuf’s feet. Yusuf smiles and kneels down to pet the grey cat, making sure to scratch her under the belly, her favorite spot. He looks up at the crow’s nest.

“You spent the night with Mark?” He croons, enjoying the way Fangs bumps her head into his palms to get more pets. “Thank you for a good watch. Now go and hide for the time being, eh?”

She meows at him and scatters, swinging her tail as she walks delicately up on the railing and into the little room they have reserved just for her. Yusuf straightens out and sighs in content. Fangs is their lucky charm, and she seems calm this morning. Good.

“Hoist the colors!” He commands loudly, and watches as the ship comes even more alive with movement. 

The air is clear and still when the black flag flies up, the skull over two axes grinning toothlessly. In just a handful of minutes, they shall move, yet not with the help of the oarsmen. No, this part is Yusuf’s own particular trick.

He tests it, swinging his fingers in the air and watching with delight how a little swirl of wind appears on his palm. The mark on his shoulder instantly feels cold yet comforting. Good. He is ready.

///

Naples is breathtaking in the hues of the rising sun.

Yusuf’s mind goes into that dark void he tries to avoid — the memories of _before._ He was here once, in another life, getting provisions for his ship’s next trip. Back then, he was just a merchant, and the sails he was coursing the sea under were white and pure. Today, he approaches the city on black pirate wings, and he wouldn’t change it for the world.

It’s easy at the beginning. He doesn’t have to have any physical contact with the ship. For now, it is enough for him to stand next to Johnathan and will the winds to arise and play in their favor. Johnny stirs the helm gracefully, staying against the sun to not let the guards on the shore spot them just yet. They’ve planned it perfectly — there are no scheduled arrivals that Naple’s soldiers are awaiting this morning, and as for the pirates — well, they never look out for those.

“Get ready,” Yusuf murmurs, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. “It’s about to get quick.”

The creak of Johnny gripping the helm even tighter is the only response he gets. There is no need for words.

 _Old Guard_ is alive under his feet, sensing the rising winds and speeding up, her gentle form cutting through water with the grace of a lovely waltz dancer. Yusuf feels her movements with every fiber of his body, and he channels the love he feels for her into his power, raising his hands to beckon the weather to favor them.

In an instant, the ship is practically flying, and before he can even break a sweat, he hears Andromache command the crew to board the boats to the shore. This is where he needs to disengage and not listen to the fight, for his concentration has to be immaculate.

As if through a fog, Yusuf feels his mates disembark, and in a few minutes, the first shots tear through the air with the screech of cannonfire. Screams start immediately after, and he travels even deeper within himself — for listening to people in pain for too long always leaves another scar on his already bruised heart.

He doesn’t know for how long he stands there, controlling the winds to keep the ship still yet ready for departure. At some point, he feels the vibrations of the crew coming back and wonders somewhere far away in his mind if they found what they came here for. No time to worry about that. That will come later, when Andromache puts her hand on his shoulder and tells him he can stop. 

It’s becoming harder with each passing second, for the winds are as much under his command as they are free and independent — and they are not meant to be still; they long to break out and flow, blow up the sails and carry the ship out into the sea. 

For just a moment, Yusuf lets down his guard and opens his eyes. There are men protecting him, as they should, but they are from Merrick’s crew, and so they do not completely understand the severity of their task — they’re distracted. There is a good reason, for he sees blue uniforms infest the deck. Bloody hell. 

No. He cannot distract himself. As soon as Andromache gives the signal, he needs to move. Yusuf presses his arms to the railings for better contact and closes his eyes. 

_And then something changes._

It happens suddenly, like a bird landing on his palm out of thin air. Yusuf cannot pinpoint what precisely it is, yet it feels as if someone touched his heart with a warm hand, brushing over the cracks in his foundation and healing them in the fashion of a _kintsugi._ Golden touch on a broken tear.

Andromache screeches somewhere in the distance — a sign for Yusuf to move. He presses on, discarding the sudden feeling and submerging his mind into his power to command the winds to turn the ship around and sail away. 

His guardians are gone. The realization comes starkly and coldly. It should not matter, for if Andy told him to move, it means there is no danger. He calls for the winds and starts working. 

Yusuf’s immaculate instincts are what saves him from untimely death, in the end. He does not think too much as his entire body feels an intruder, and he turns sharply, snatching out his dagger and raising it in the air while another hand moves his sword forward, right into the enemy’s belly. Distractedly, he notices the reddened wrists of the enemy but discards it.

Their daggers clash just as the hilt of his sword sinks into the flesh, yet it is not what breaks Yusuf out of his carefully maintained concentration. 

It is the eyes opposite of his own. He never looks in the eyes of an enemy, for there are far too many demons unleashed in the gaze of a dying man, yet this time, he cannot find it in himself to look away — for the power and beauty that explodes in front of him as he takes the soldier’s soul is as a breeze over the desert of his childhood. In a single moment suspended in time, Yusuf sees the nature and the wind and the sunlight and the storm, and his soul sings with something before unknown. He tries to grasp it yet it eludes him, sinks deep into the ocean of the enemy’s soul.

And then it is over. The daze lifts, and Yusuf remembers his purpose. He groans and pushes the man to the railing, struggling to throw him overboard. The soldier grabs his arm, and, not without an effort, Yusuf shakes off his mask and bites into the flesh holding him, forcing it to let go. Now, all it takes is to put his hand square on the man’s chest and push.

His sword perishes along with the man in the pits of the ocean, yet Yusuf snatches his dagger, admiring it for a moment — its intricate encrusted handle stained with blood — before looking down to make sure the enemy went under. All that he sees is the green abyss.

Yusuf hides both daggers under his belt and looks over the deck. There is far more black and red than it is blue, and Andromache is glaring at him from below. It means their departure is long overdue.

Yusuf breathes out through his nose and fastens the mask back, putting his hands back on the railing and concentrating. The wind obeys and blows the sails, carrying them out into the sea, the burning Naples on the horizon getting smaller with each minute.

And as Yusuf’s mind descends deeper into itself, one persistent image yet remains at the center of it, and he cannot cast it away no matter how desperately he tries. In the end, he lets it stay, giving in to its power and allowing it to fuel his mind and soul in his ungrateful labor. An image of green eyes, full of life despite being robbed of it, and the power they held, the man bearing them being engulfed by the cruel and merciless waves.

///

The candlestick crashes into the wall, leaving a dent in the mahogany wood. Yusuf marks it away to let Copley, their poor carpenter, handle it before turning to the enraged Andromache. There is a migraine raging behind his eyes, yet there are more important matters to settle before he can succumb into a blissful slumber that follows each time he uses his power this extensively.

“We did find something,” he reminds in a soft voice.

Andy turns sharply on her heels and marches to him, her cape flying around her form as if she were an enraged valkyrie descending upon him.

“We found a _rumor_ ,” she screeches. “No physical proof of it being true.”

“Isn’t it what our lives are built on?” Yusuf wonders tiredly. “Rumors nobody else believes?”

He watches Andy’s jaw move angrily as she comes around to admit that he is, just like usual, right. Yusuf raises his hands and carefully, as if taming a scared wounded animal, puts them on the captain’s shoulders.

“We yet have hope,” he murmurs. “What exactly did the priest say?”

Andromache screws her eyes shut and swipes at a strand of hair that’s gotten in her face.

“We shall set sail to where the breath of Calypso lies,” she recites in a whisper. “There, we will see the path to what we seek.”

Yusuf frowns and shakes his head. “But the breath of Calypso…”

“Is Noriko,” Andy responds. “ _Was_ Noriko.”

“Once was,” Yusuf dares to remind. “There are dozens of Calypso’s children in the sea, does not mean every one of them is _the_ one.”

Andromache straightens her shoulders and walks over to the ancient globe in the middle of the cabin. She spins it around and lets the frayed edges of the map brush her calloused fingertips.

“ _Is_ there one?” She wonders quietly. “You and I have been around for a long time, and we are yet to meet someone more worthy of the title than Noriko.”

Yusuf grunts and shakes his head. “This is not the point of our discussion, Andy.”

She nods and clears her throat. “Where the hell is Merrick? He promised we would find something that would lead us to what we seek, but we found only a gospel of a mad worshipper that might as well be bullshit.”

As if summoned, Merrick stumbles into the cabin, wiping his sword with a cloth. Yusuf gives him a distasteful once-over, noting the absence of even a breath of injury on his entire body. The coward probably came out of hiding only when the battle was coming to an end.

“Well?” Merrick asks, eyes burning with the promise of treasure.

Andromache throws the remaining candlestick at him, but he, unfortunately, ducks just in time for it to miss his huge head. Pity.

“Just a bloody sentence,” Andy seethes, her anger coming back full force. “You promised me the compass or the map, scoundrel.”

Yusuf puts a calming hand on her forearm. “Easy.”

“Listen to your first mate, captain,” Merrick advises, his little rat eyes running over them in what can be perceived as either fear or distaste. For his benefit, it better be the first. “I was _told_ the objects would be in the temple of Naples.”

“We only found an old priest on a ruined altar,” Andromache clarifies. “He informed us that someone took the compass many moons ago. The map was never there to begin with.”

“Curious,” Merrick hums, fingers caressing his chin. Yusuf suspects the bloody idiot believes there is a beard there. “Did he give any information about who took the compass?”

Andy just shakes her head. “He was on the verge of death by the time I got to him. Only had time to utter senseless bullshit to me.”

“Well, no harm in following up on that _bullshit_ , is it?” Merrick suggests. “We shall—”

“ _We_ shall do _shit_ ,” Andy interrupts him. “You and your crew of useless monkeys will leave my ship the second we make port in Malta. The only reason you are not yet dead, Captain Merrick, is the standing you have in the Brethren.”

Merrick opens his mouth to argue, even going as far as stepping forward into Andy’s personal space, but whatever trash that was about to come out of that spineless fool’s mouth dies on his tongue. The door to the captain’s quarters is ajar, and so they hear it clear as day — the shouting and scuffle on the deck, uncharacteristic to those of the routine life of the crew. 

Yusuf rubs his eyebrow as he makes his way out, cursing the mates for finding a cause to tussle. He pushes through the crowd of people gathered around and clears his throat.

“The hell is going on?” He asks in the loudest voice he can master with the headache yet raging.

It’s only now that he notices a man lying face down on the floor, shivering from cold. Booker steps forward and kicks the man in the ribs, causing him to cough and swear under his breath.

“A bloody soldier on board!” Booker spits out. “Found him in the powder room, cowering behind the barrels.”

Yusuf frowns and lowers his eyes to look at the soldier, wondering at the absence of his weapons or uniform.

“What—”

The man looks up, and the air, for the first time in Yusuf’s life, betrays him, leaving his lungs in a soundless gasp.

The same green that has been on his mind for hours now, the eyes so alight with life and hatred, staring up at him from the face of the man that he killed with his own hands. Yusuf finds himself motionless, his hands frozen on his waist as he gazes down on the enemy he thought he rid this world of.

“What’s this?” Andromache roars from behind him, swiftly coming to stand next to Yusuf.

Booker recounts the story, but it only flows through Yusuf’s mind like a passionless breeze, for he cannot look away from the man’s face. The man is looking back, his own mind troubled and agitated, if the way his lips curl and move soundlessly is of any indication. His hair is dirty blond, stapled to his forehead with water and caked blood. He must have hit his head when he fell.

When Yusuf pushed him.

“Why are you all standing around, then?” Andy wonders with a scoff, pulling out her gun and pointing it at the man’s hand. “We don’t have time to make him walk the plank, and he is not even deserving of it.”

The gun cocks so loudly it resonates inside Yusuf’s mind, at the same time a string in his soul snaps and sings for him to stop it. Before he can think twice, he shoots up his hand and covers Andy’s palm with it, urging her to lower the gun.

“Yusuf…”

“Do you sense it?” Yusuf finds himself whispering.

It leads him to itself before he can understand what it is that he feels inside. Yusuf kneels down next to the man and looks into his eyes, even deeper, inclining his head in a sign of a fleeting truce. 

“What is your name?” He asks slowly, while his eyes trail down the man’s body, searching for _it_.

As an answer, the man spits on his boots. Very entertaining.

“Yusuf,” Andromache warns. “We have matters to attend to.”

“Yes, and they are right before us,” he whispers.

Carefully, Yusuf extends his hand to touch the man’s shoulder. Angry eyes follow his movements. His hands are curled up in fists at his sides where Booker hastily tied him up.

Yusuf hooks the edge of the white undershirt and goes to remove it, but the man snarls at him and curses in Italian, trying to shake his hand off. Yusuf, however much it pains his heart, ignores the protests, and pulls the shirt away to reveal the man’s shoulder.

A collective gasp rings in the air, and like one, the crowd shies away from them, only Andromache remaining in her place, wide eyes glued to what Yusuf uncovered. 

A shining white mark, a swirling wave ingrained into the skin of their prisoner.

“Mark of the Calypso,” Yusuf whispers, not believing his eyes but _sensing_ that it is true, that the fates had thrown another chosen one into their midst.

“No,” Andromache groans, stepping closer and kneeling before them.

The light coming from the mark illuminates the despair in her eyes, and the reason for the grief creasing her face comes soon enough. A whining creak comes over the ship as she feels a new son of Calypso board her. The siren on the nose emits a loud screech that causes everybody to drop to their knees and press their palms to their ears.

The man on the deck raises his head in wonder, his eyes widening as he listens to the screech, his mouth parted in bewilderment. 

“What do you hear?” Yusuf asks urgently, his fingers curling around the man’s bicep.

Green eyes find his own, the hatred for now replaced with surprise and bafflement. Yusuf feels a trickle of blood trail down his cheek from his ear, and the screech is becoming unbearable for him, yet the man seems longing to hear more.

“She is…” He whispers in English. “ _Singing_.”

Yusuf meets Andromache’s desperate eyes.

The _Old Guard_ has chosen.

“It’s beautiful,” the man whispers, and Yusuf finds himself lost in the open and joyful face that looks rather stunning now that it isn’t broken with anger and aversion. “What is it?”

“The song of the ship,” Yusuf responds. “She is singing to you.”

Suddenly, it stops. Yusuf’s head is swimming with the doubled pain, nausea rising in his throat as his ears ring in the following silence. After a few moments, he registers the flapping of the sails and Fangs meowing somewhere within the ship. The crowd of men scurries even farther away, forming a wide berth around the three people yet on the deck.

“What is your name?” Yusuf repeats, pressing on despite the overwhelming throbbing in his temples.

The green of the man’s gaze falls on him once again, and now he notices the hints of grey and blue in it, the multicolor of his appearance bearing a sense of fatefulness about it that Yusuf cannot quite comprehend.

“Nicolo,” the man whispers. “I am… Nicolo.”

When Yusuf smiles, it feels like his lips have not done it in centuries. He untangles the ropes around Nicolo’s waist and offers his palm.

“Welcome aboard, Nicolo.”

“ _No_.”

Andromache appears at his side, her pistol immediately pressing to Nicolo’s forehead. Yusuf hisses through his teeth.

“Captain—”

“He is an impostor,” Andromache grits out. “And he shall be treated as such.”

“He was chosen by the sea _and_ the ship,” he reminds in a harsh whisper, an urgency to protect Nicolo arising in him. “You cannot kill him now, not if you wish to cast the anger of the gods upon our already cursed heads.”

Andy glares at him, and his heart bleeds for the look of an orphaned cornered animal in her eyes. She is terrified, he finds, terrified of the things beyond either of their knowledge. But most of all, she is scared of a quite obvious fact presented before them now.

If the _Old Guard_ chose a son of Calypso, the previous chosen one is no longer bound to her rails and colors. Which can only mean one thing.

“She cannot be dead,” Andromache whispers, her eyelashes bearing the tears of a lover broken. “Yusuf—”

“She may _not_ be,” Yusuf placates, choosing to opt for a half-lie in the face of dire times. “Yet now, we need to welcome a new crew member.”

Andromache presses her lips together and shakes her head but stands up, hiding the pistol behind her belt. She casts an angry gaze over Nicolo, who has stilled to await his fate, and spits out a curse in her language, a thing she only does when she doesn’t want anyone, even Yusuf, to understand her. He suppresses a sigh.

“He is your responsibility, then,” she seethes. “If he so much as _attempts_ to cause harm to the ship or crew, I will make _you_ put a bullet through his head.”

A bunch of deceitful horseshit, Yusuf knows, but she needs to establish her authority and release her anger. Yusuf simply nods and watches her storm away and slam the door into her quarters so hard one of the glass panels shatters. Copley groans somewhere in the crowd.

Yusuf glares at them, throwing a few quick commands for them to return to their stations. Booker comes closer and lowers himself to arch an inquiring eyebrow at Yusuf.

“Nicolo?” Yusuf asks softly.

Nicolo doesn’t respond yet looks his way, his face bearing a mixture of confusion and defiance. It is rather endearing.

“You are not an enemy to us,” Yusuf says.

“Why?” Nicolo grits out. “You are to me.”

“Well,” Booker wagers, tilting his head. “You are a man without weapons on a ship full of pirates, with a captain who hoards a particular grudge against you. I would not bet on you, friend.”

“We’re not friends,” Nicolo says, but his voice is subdued as he realizes his chances at rebelling are truly abysmal. 

His lips are shaking from cold, but he is holding up bravely, not letting any sign of strain show on his face. Yusuf sighs and pulls off his coat to throw it over the man. Nicolo tries to shake it off, but Booker follows Yusuf’s lead and presses the clothes to his back, forcing him to pull his arms through the sleeves. As Nicolo sits up and his shirt riles up, Yusuf looks at his stomach for confirmation, and there it is — not a single trace of the wound Yusuf put there. Only smooth skin over a toned abdomen.

“The sea chose you,” he murmurs.

“What?” Nicolo asks, frowning so strongly his brows come together. “What does any of it mean?”

Yusuf swallows and looks around. The crew are hard at work, sailing them away further into the sea, yet he knows better than anyone that no secret discussed on deck ever remains such. He exchanges a glance with Booker, and together, they help Nicolo up by his arms and lead him under the quarter deck and inside, into Yusuf’s cabin.

He suddenly feels self-conscious about the mess that his quarters are and tries to clean up quickly, straightening the covers on the bed to let Nicolo sit down timidly. Then, he rubs his hands together.

“The sea and the ship chose you,” he repeats.

Nicolo opens his mouth again to ask, but Booker stops him. Simultaneously, Booker and Yusuf pull away their shirts and turn their shoulders for the befuddled Nicolo to see the marks on the same places he bears the mark of Calypso. Booker’s is a scorned scar resembling a flame, and Yusuf wears a roll of wind on his skin. Nicolo stares at them both as if they went mad.

“You are pirates who have scars,” he utters. “How _peculiar_.”

Yusuf squints at him. “They are not just _scars_. They are marks of the chosen ones. Just like your own.”

“It is a birthmark,” Nicolo contradicts, hugging his frame tighter. “Nothing strange or mystical about it.”

Booker scoffs and crosses his arms on his chest. “Truly? Not even the fact you survived drowning and washing up into our torn hull?”

“I didn’t—” He stops abruptly.

Yusuf winces in sympathy. It has been years since he passed his first death, and he yet recalls the disbelief and horror that came over his being. He swallows and comes closer, sitting down on the other side of the bed.

“It is a lot to take in,” he whispers. “Yet you need to know that your life before today is no more.”

Nicolo’s head shoots up as he looks at Yusuf, the storm of his gaze enthralling the man who thought he’d seen all the breathtaking sights this world could offer.

“You don’t mean I am to call myself a _pirate_ now?” He spits out, his eyes wide in wonder as much as in disgust. “And thank you for my salvation?”

Booker whistles under his breath and raises his hands palms up.

“This one is on you, _compère_ ,” he announces. “I have matters to attend to.”

The door swings close behind him with a thump that revibrates through Yusuf’s weary bones. Nicolo is breathing loudly, his fists flexing in his lap.

“I know it is hard,” Yusuf whispers, keeping his eyes trained on the stack of maps on his table. They are rolling slowly to the side, compelled by the rocking of the ship.

“Do you think so?” Nicolo wonders, yet something minuscule about the rise and fall of his voice tells Yusuf it is not a question he wants to hear _Yusuf’s_ answer to. “Do you think it is hard for me to accept I have been marooned on a pirate ship after a lifetime of serving my kingdom in good standing and faith?”

Yusuf suppresses a sardonic sigh and casts his gaze upon the sea he sees in the window.

_Did you really have to choose a bootlicking fool?_

Calypso does not, as it goes, grant him a response, and neither does Aeolus when he tries to call upon him for the strength to handle this. 

Yusuf takes a measured breath, searching for words. He is not strong on patience, but his heart yet bears the memory of compassion. Nobody was there for him when he was resurrected by Aeolus, and he wishes he had a companion in all those lonely years before finding Andromache.

As his gaze wanders around the cabin, it falls on Nicolo’s exposed wrists, and it stirs a memory in his tired mind.

“Your skin was red around the wrists,” he recalls, carding through the hazy recollections of the battle. “As if you were in shackles before.”

Nicolo’s eyes drop to his hands, and he hides them deeper into the sleeves of Yusuf’s jacket. It is big on him but hugs his frame enough to provide warmth. 

“The battle found me near the hanging pole, actually,” Nicolo says under his breath and then frowns, as if he did not expect himself to disclose it. “I was set for execution.”

A twinkle of humor sneaks into Yusuf’s voice. “So you have finished your life in any case, then. Here is your afterlife.”

He did not expect Nicolo to share the flippancy of his statement, yet the glare that he receives in response is still somewhat of an overkill. 

“How humorous,” the man murmurs. 

“Calypso has chosen you, friend,” Yusuf says with a sigh.

Nicolo shakes his head. “For what, exactly?”

Yusuf cards a hand through his hair and chuckles darkly. “The answer is yet to present itself.”

“Do you expect me to believe in the old wives’ tales about the gods’ favorites?” Nicolo snaps suddenly, his voice taking on the high notes of hysteria. 

There was a time Yusuf scoffed at it, too, he reckons dully as he watches the disbelief curl Nicolo’s lips in a curved line. It is one thing to follow the rituals and worship the deities; it is another to find yourself as a hero of a bedtime story parents tell to disobedient children to scare them into behaving.

“I don’t expect you,” Yusuf sighs, “but you will. One day. For now, I shall leave you to rest.”

He stands up and fixes the dagger on his belt. The one he took from Nicolo is hidden under his shirt, and, guided by a vexing premonition, he makes sure for it to stay concealed.

“What?”

Nicolo’s eyes are wide when Yusuf looks down at him. “I have other engagements other than entertaining unexpected guests.”

“You’re just going to leave me here like this?”

“Well.” Yusuf scratches his beard. “You do not really have a place to leave for, do you? I shall return after some time to accommodate you, but do not expect anything, mate. We are a crew, and you are a part of it now, and even your peculiar status won’t keep you from doing your part.”

Nicolo shakes his head. “My peculiar status? Crew? I did not agree to any of it.”

“Do you want me to throw you into the brig?” Yusuf smiles once again, finding himself more amused than annoyed. “You were chosen by Calypso.” 

“You keep talking about choices,” Nicolo murmurs, and if Yusuf was a foolish man, he would think the man sounded defeated. “Yet I have not chosen any of this.”

Yusuf finds his heart breaking at the sight of Nicolo’s hung head. 

None of them chose it, yet all of them had to accept it.

“There is always a reason,” Yusuf says, trying to keep his voice steady. “There must be.”

Nicolo looks up, and once again, the stormy green of his eyes encapture Yusuf and hold him frozen in place even across the room. There is something about the man that calls to him, yet he knows it is nothing but the bond of another chosen one, the seal of the brethren. Nothing more, nothing less.

“If you are chosen too,” Nicolo says, “You must have found your reason.”

Yusuf does not grant him a response. Perhaps, because he does not have it himself.

The ship rocks under his feet, her faithful loins guarding and carrying the crew to Malta, the siren perched atop it singing the song of their travels. Nicolo searches Yusuf’s face for answers to questions he has not yet posed. The green of his gaze meets the darkness of the pirate’s.

“You are one of us now,” Yusuf decrees. “Like it or not. You better get used to it.”

“And what if I don’t?” Nicolo challenges, his form somehow powerful and dangerous despite his meek and pitiful appearance.

Yusuf smirks and fixes the mask up on his face. He leaves without an answer, and as the door closes behind him, his heart beats hollowly in his chest, a sudden interest arising deep inside of it. For the second time today, Yusuf leaves his quarters, wondering, yet this time there is a spring in his step and a hope in his heart. 

A child of Calypso is yet again on board, and with them — the _Old Guard_ shall once again thrive upon the Seven Seas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alrightey!  
> hello again, and thank you everyone who gave this little thing attention! this second chapter is a little bigger and expands more on our characters, but if you're one of my regular readers, you'll notice that it's significantly smaller than my usual chapters. the thing is - i don't want this fic to become just another burdensome unnecessarily dragged out project (no shade to ets); plus, this size also allows for more frequent updates - which is the second point i wanted to talk about. i can't promise regular or scheduled updates, because I'm in a.. rather tender mental state these days, and this was actually supposed to be my writing break time lmao. anyway, this fic is just something fun and light for me, and i hope everybody reading this has as much fun as i do writing it!
> 
> that taken care of - here comes that magic tag! and the husbands meet! and backstory and plot is hinted at! and there's a cat and random ocs that are not actually ocs! and it's FUN! 
> 
> thank you again to everyone giving this attention and love, hope you're enjoying the ride <3 
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/anxgayiety) // [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/romulusadhara) // [carrd](https://onefortheroad.carrd.co/)


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